18. MARCY
MARCY
“What are you doing here?” I ask, barely able to keep my voice from shaking.
My mother stands in the doorway of Hawk’s house like she owns the place. Her blond hair is swept into an immaculate bun, makeup flawless despite the late hour. She looks like she just stepped out of a country club luncheon.
“I’ve come to take you home,” she says briskly, like it’s the most reasonable thing in the world. “This charade has gone on long enough.”
I shift where I stand, the hem of Hawk’s oversized black T-shirt brushing me mid-thigh. Her eyes drop to it like it offends her.
“You’re making a spectacle of yourself, Marcy,” she snaps. “Do you have any idea what this has done to your father? To our name?”
I shake my head slowly, feeling the familiar push of her words trying to press me back into the mold she’s always wanted me in. “I’m not your PR project anymore. You should leave, and take your friends with you.”
I barely glance at the policemen. How dare she bring them to my door? Just to intimidate me?
Her lips twitch with something like pity. “Your father is sick, Marcy.”
That hits hard. Guilt uncoils in my stomach. Despite everything—even after he cut off my cards, pulled my car, tried to control every inch of my life—he’s still my dad. And now… he’s sick?
“W-what happened to him?”
“You should come see him,” she says, softly this time. “The last few days haven’t been kind to him.”
“They haven’t been exactly kind to me, either,” I say, folding my arms over my chest.
She sighs. “Marcy, please.”
I glance over my shoulder. Hawk is standing stiff, jaw clenched, clearly not happy. “I should go,” I say quietly to him. “Just to see. I won’t be long.”
His brows furrow. “Marcy…”
“I’ll be back,” I say softly, pressing my hand against his chest. “I promise.”
Reluctantly, Hawk nods. My mom’s eyes flick toward him again, this time with open disapproval.
“My God,” she mutters as we head out. “He’s almost my age.”
I ignore her.
The ride is mostly silent. I watch the city blur past the window as I chew on the inside of my cheek. My stomach’s still raw, and it’s not from the food poisoning anymore.
When we pull into the long, circular driveway of the house I used to call home, everything feels colder. More sterile than I remember. Like even the walls are trying to be something they’re not.
I stare out the window, guilt and anger battling inside me. If he’s really sick, how can I not go check on him?
We step inside, the marble floor seeping into my sandals. I hate this place.
And then I see her.
Nadia.
Her honey-blond curls are perfectly styled, not a strand out of place.
She’s lounging on one of the cream armchairs in the sunken living room, wearing silk loungewear—not from any store you’d find in town.
The robe she’s wearing? It used to be my mother’s.
I remember it from when I was thirteen—deep navy with embroidered cuffs, made in Paris.
Her legs are elegantly crossed, one manicured hand curled around a glass of red wine. Her lips twitch into something resembling a smile when she sees me.
“Marcy,” she purrs. “It’s been a while.”
I stare at her. No one ever says what she is. No one names it. But I’ve always known.
My father’s “executive assistant.” At least, that’s what he used to call her before he got bold enough to build her a whole summer house and start bringing her to galas. My father’s real companion when the public face of our family wasn’t needed.
My mother walks past her like Nadia doesn’t exist. Not a glance. Not a word.
I follow, throat dry, stomach tight. We head toward the lounge, my shoes echoing in the long hallway.
When we reach the threshold, I brace myself.
And there he is.
My father. Very much alive and well. Sitting upright in his leather recliner, one hand holding a tumbler of scotch, the other scrolling his phone. The television is on low, some finance segment humming in the background.
He looks up, smiles. “Marcy, sweetheart. I’m so glad you came.”
My feet stop. Everything inside me stills.
“You’re not sick,” I say.
He sets the glass down, rising smoothly. “Well, I’ve been under a lot of stress lately, and your mother thought?—”
I don’t hear the rest.
All I hear is the sound of blood rushing in my ears. I turn to my mother, who’s standing off to the side, looking pale.
“I’m sorry, Marcy,” she says. “I had no choice.”
They tricked me.
“You’re not sick,” I say to my father again, firmer this time. My arms fold across my chest like they can hold in the storm building inside me.
I can’t believe I left with my mother because of a lie—right after Hawk told me he loved me. I feel disgusted to my very core.
My father just smiles, smoothing down the front of his cashmere sweater like he’s preparing for a magazine cover shoot.
“Well, stress does terrible things to the body, Marcy. But now that you’re here…
let’s stop playing games, shall we?” He steps toward me, that same fake warmth laced with quiet command.
“You have my attention now. Isn’t that what you wanted? ”
My jaw drops. “You think that’s what this is about?” I laugh bitterly.
“Marcy—”
“No.” I hold up a hand, my voice rising. “It’s not always about you, Dad. I have a life. I’m living it. Not under your rules. Not for your campaigns. Not for your ego.”
His smile vanishes, replaced by something colder. “You will not become a whore,” he snaps. “Not on my watch.”
The words hit me like a slap, but I don’t flinch. “All I’ve ever done is make you look good. Smiling at charity events, pretending to be some perfect daughter for your little outreach programs. And what do I get in return? Being called a whore?”
“You will not leave this house,” he growls.
“Oh, please.” My laugh is bitter now. “You don’t own me anymore. You never really did. You only cared about how I looked beside you. How I made you feel important.”
“You disgust me,” he hisses. “Sleeping around with criminals twice your age, men who run illegal bars and biker gangs. I won’t have it.”
“I don’t care what you think about me anymore,” I retort, tears burning the corners of my eyes. Not from sadness, but rage.
He stalks toward me, but I stand my ground. His voice is lower now, laced with poison. “Can’t you see? You’re just their plaything, Marcy. They’re using you. They’ll throw you away like trash the moment they’re done.”
I suck in a breath, his words burrowing deeper than I want to admit.
“They’re using you to get to me,” my father adds.
That makes me blink. Something tightens in my chest, and my breath hitches.
And then I remember CJ’s voice—clear, quiet, cutting from the night he cornered me in his room.
“You being here... it complicates everything.”
“You don’t know what your father’s done.”
At the time, I thought it was just bias. Just some deep-seated hatred from whatever political feud CJ and my dad had going. But now, hearing the same threat from both sides, my heart twists.
“You did something to them,” I say slowly, my voice razor-sharp. “Didn’t you?”
He doesn’t answer. Just straightens his shoulders and adjusts his cuffs like this is just another press conference he has to survive.
This isn’t just about me making him look bad, or whatever he’s doing to them to get back at me. It’s about whatever the hell happened between my father and the 12 Devils before I was even involved with them.
The silence stretches between us like a live wire. I can hear the ticking of the ornate grandfather clock in the hall. I wait for him to say something—deny it, deflect, lie—but he doesn’t. He just straightens his posture again and walks toward the sideboard like he’s bored.
“That’s your answer?” I ask, voice shaking. “Silence?”
He pours himself another drink—his second since I walked in—and tosses it back without blinking. “Some things are bigger than you, Marcy.”
My stomach tightens. “Right. Because everything is about power and secrets, and I’m just… what? Collateral?”
He finally turns around, face unreadable. “You’ve always been emotional. You don’t think things through. You wouldn’t understand.”
I let out a short, bitter laugh. “Try me.”
A muscle jumps in his jaw, but he doesn’t offer anything else. Instead, he says, “It’s best if you stay here for a while. Until the story dies down. I’ll have someone from my office prepare a statement, clean this whole mess up.”
“Oh, you mean the mess that you leaked?”
His eyes narrow slightly.
“You think I don’t know how these things work?” I spit. “Someone leaked a voice memo—recorded inside a private room at the bar. That didn’t come from me or from the Devils.”
He says nothing.
I nod slowly, the pieces slotting into place. “You’re trying to destroy them. And you’re using me to do it.”
“They’re dangerous men, Marcy.”
“And you’re not?”
He steps forward, slow and calculated. “They’ll ruin you. They don’t care about you, not really. You’re a means to an end. You think they’re different because they let you sleep in their beds? That’s not love. That’s strategy.”
My heart hammers against my ribs, but I force myself to hold his gaze. “You know what’s funny?” I say, voice trembling. “For the first time in my life, I feel like I have control. I feel wanted, not displayed. Not packaged.”
“You’re angry, Marcy. And those men are poisoning you against me. And for the record, I didn’t leak the news at all. I wouldn’t do that to my daughter.”
I shake my head. “I don’t know that.”
“Marcy, wait,” my mother says, stepping towards me with her hand outstretched. Her eyes are wide, and her voice trembles beneath the calm exterior she wears like a mask. “Please. Don’t do this. Let’s just… all take a breath.”
She always does this. Smooths the cracks over with a polished voice, a neutral tone. Pretends we’re a normal family and not a collection of performances built around one man’s ego.
“Mom,” I say quietly, “he lied about being sick just to drag me back here. He’s the one doing this. Not me.”
“She’s not going anywhere,” my father cuts in, his voice sharp as glass. “Not until she’s had time to cool off and stop playing rebel with a gang of degenerates.”
I turn slowly, stare at him.
“I’m warning you, Marcy,” he says, stepping closer. “You’ll regret this. Stop this right now. Beg my forgiveness, and I’ll forget all about it. You have one chance.”
My fists clench. “Or what?” I ask, my voice low and even.
He narrows his eyes, spine snapping straight like a predator who thinks he’s cornered prey. But there’s a gleam in his expression now—one I’ve seen before. It used to make me shrink. Not anymore.
Then he smirks. Cold. Calculated. Cruel.
“You won’t want to find out.”
The air between us turns to static. I take a step back, chin lifting.
“Do your worst, Dad,” I spit. “I’m done with this fucking place.”
“Marcy!” my mother cries. “Don’t talk to him like that. Don’t throw everything away over some boys and anger. Please. Don’t do this.”
I look at her. Really look.
She’s not shocked at him. She’s shocked at me. Because for the first time, I’m not shrinking under his shadow.
“I am doing this,” I say quietly. “Because I’m done playing the good daughter in your broken little empire.”
I push past her and yank the front door open.
My father doesn’t call after me. Of course he doesn’t. He expects the door to slam shut behind me and for me to come crawling back tomorrow.
But this time?
I don’t look back.
Not once.